Hygiene
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-finale. Oneshot. "The most important thing in a relationship is trust, after sex…and hygiene…and earning potential."


**Author's Note: **Section One of this story is for Sabi ( LemonLattes), who asked for honeymoon pedicures on Twitter. Section Two is for smellyoldshoebrush, who asked for a fic with "an extremely patient Chuck dealing with a very hormonal Blair". I hope you two are pleased. Section Three is the idea that started it all.

* * *

"_The most important thing in a relationship is trust, after sex…and hygiene…and earning potential." – Blair Waldorf_

* * *

Her fingers race across the keyboard, click and compose another text message, another email before her husband returns and catches her red handed. Again. She's just about finished; just about to hit send when the door flies open and her husband emerges from the bathroom sans the white, collared shirt he had been wearing when he went in. She peeks at him over the top of her phone, yelps and scrambles to hide it as he advances towards her, as he snatches it from her hand.

"Chuck!" She protests, moving to take the phone back and desperately trying to ignore the way he has shed every stitch of clothing.

"We said no work," he reminds her darkly, holding the phone just out of her reach. His arm snakes around her waist, his hand grabs at the white robe covering her frame from his gaze, and he pulls her against him in a forceful tug.

"It's just one email," she protests. Her body angles in a particular way to reach her phone, angles in a particular way that exposes the slope of her neck to him. His lips skim across her skin, freeze with the next words out of her mouth. "I need to respond to my mother. You know how she gets when I don't reply."

"Blair, please, don't talk about your mother," he replies in a painful voice, in a warning. The last thing he wants to discuss, the last thing he wants to think about right now is his mother-in-law.

Chuck returns to feathering kisses against her neck; smirks when she gasps at his nibbling caresses. He tosses the phone on the rumpled sheets of the bed and moves the now empty hand to tug at the knotted sash holding her robe together. Chuck skates his fingers across her firm belly when the robe falls apart in a slow worship of her naked body h. He vacillates between traveling upward to stroke the silky skin of her breasts and traveling downward to part and touch and slide and –

He makes up his mind with a low growl, feels himself grow hard and heavy and desperate against the softness of her robe, against the brush of her thigh. He slides his hand down, fingers pressing and teasing and then –

Trapped by her hand pressing against his, holding him in place and preventing him from going any further. He raises his head from her neck, looks at her questioningly because he could feel her hot gasps against his neck. Because he could hear her breath hitch in anticipation as he debated his course of action, his plan of attack.

"I made an appointment," she replies. Her eyes flutter close to shut herself off her his gaze, to steel herself against her own wants and needs. "The hotel is sending someone up for a pedicure in ten minutes."

"A pedicure?" He questions derisively, desperately.

"Yes," she snaps as she slips from his grasp, as she moves to tie her robe again. "I told you this morning that I need a pedicure after last night's foray."

He smirks, eyes darkening salaciously at the memory of last night. The sand squished between their bodies, sticking and spreading with every movement; the moonlight basking them in its glow as the waves lapped at their entangled limbs. The way she struggled and fought and tried to stay quiet as the possibility of discovery sent a thrill through her.

"You know what sand and salt water does to my cuticles," she replies pointedly as she moves to collect her phone for the bed.

Blair bends at the waist, bends to scoop her discarded lingerie from the floor, and feels his hand brush against her backside. She stands ready to protest his touch when fingers curl against her hipbones and pull her back flush against his front. She rolls her eyes at his insistence, rolls her eyes at the feeling of fabric falling open and his fingers skimming across her skin again.

"I'm sorry about your cuticles," he whispers in her ear before pressing himself against in a short, quick thrust. "But we have more pressing matters to attend to, don't we, Mrs. Bass?"

He bends his head and his lips brush against the nape of her neck once more. His teeth graze the long line of her throat as his hands move over her form, as his hands caress until her breath becomes strangled in her throat. Her head falls back against his shoulder as she moans, as she shifts her hips against him. His fingers dig into her thigh, dig and knead provocatively until he slides his hand against her slowly, deliberately.

"I –"

She stops to swallow, stops to gather herself when a distant knock interrupts them both. A faint voice calls out from the suite's living room, announces the reason for the intrusion in muffled words. Finding the living room empty, the concierge musters up the courage to knock on the owner's bedroom door, to interrupt the owner's honeymoon in order to carry out the instructions of the owner's wife.

"Mister and Mrs. Bass? The manicurist is here."

"Thank you," Blair replies through the door as she extracts herself from Chuck's hands with a wiggle and a shimmer against him. "We'll be right out."

He had not stopped his ministrations at the interruption knowing how much she loves public relations, but the plan backfires when Blair pulls the panels of her robe closed once more and darts off to the bathroom with her lavender negligee in hand. Chuck sighs, runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he snatches his robe off the chair in the corner of the room and yanks the fabric on over his body.

He grabs his wallet from the place on the dresser where he tossed it after lunch, after he had followed Blair around the city for over two hours before she broke, before she pulled him into the next available taxi and demanded they head back to the hotel. Immediately.

Chuck digs out a handful of bills from his wallet, pays no mind to the denominations as he crumples them in his hand and wrenches open the bedroom door. Two heads turn to look at him, freeze in their efforts to set up and oversee, respectively. He advances towards the man in the suit, towards the concierge with a dark expression on his face.

"Mister Bass," the concierge sputters in greeting. His eyes grow wide in fear, wide as he tries to figure out what he has done wrong. "Would you care for a pedicure as well, sir?"

Chuck holds up a hand, bids the man to cease talking before thrust the wade of cash into the concierge's hand. The other man's eyes widen further at the amount of money being handed to him and his eyes dart to Chuck's in surprise.

"No more pedicures or informative tours through the countryside. Mrs. Bass and I are on our honeymoon. Our activities are already planned for the duration of our stay. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," the concierge replies. He pockets the money and gestures to the manicurist to pack up her supplies immediately. "Have a nice stay, sir."

Chuck turns away, moves back into the bedroom to find Blair standing with her hands on her hips and an annoyed expression on her lips.

"Chuck, I wanted that pedicure. Do you know how important hygiene is in a relationship? It's at the top of the list."

"Right after sexual compatibility," he fills in with a smirk as he reaches out to stroke her chin. "And I'd rather work on that part of our relationship."

* * *

He rubs his forehead in frustration, tries to take a calming breath as another expensive shoe wizzes past his head and slams into the wall behind him. He steps over the collection of mismatched heel heights and colors, avoids the temptation to gather up the offending items as he peeks around the doorframe into the closet.

He finds her exactly where he left her twenty minutes ago – seated on the round ottoman in the middle of the closet surrounded by opened shoe boxes and tissue paper. She glances up at him, glances up with tears of frustration sliding down her cheeks. He pauses at the escalation over this all too familiar scene, pauses as he tries to figure out what to say and do that won't have Blair throwing shoes at him rather than at the wall.

"I can't find any shoes that fit," Blair informs him. Her voice alternates between a frustrated groan and a blubbering of desperation with each syllable she speaks.

"So we'll buy you a new pair," Chuck tells her in a soft, gentle manner meant to calm her. His words, however, have the opposite effect, and she holds up the shoebox nearest to her and shakes it at him in an illustration of her point.

"These are new," she replies as she drops the shoebox with a face wrinkled in disgust. "I bought them three weeks ago with Serena and now they don't fit!"

He chooses not to say anything, just silently pushes the shoeboxes and shoes aside so he can drop to one knee in front of her. He gathers her hands in his own, holds them gently as he tries to comfort her through her distress.

"Don't," she hisses as she yanks her hands away from his. "I don't want to hear your lies about how beautiful I am, Chuck Bass."

"They're not—"

"Waldorf Designs doesn't even make dresses in my size," she snaps. "And now I can't even fit into a size nine shoe. Even my feet are disgusting."

"Stop," he commands as he cups her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him as her frustrated tears drip from her cheeks onto his palms. "You are beautiful and every part of you is perfect, even your feet."

"No, they're not," she protests.

Blair tries to shift her body, tries to lean over to point out the cracks in her toenails and the overgrown cuticles, but the parts of her body housing an overdue baby force her to abandon her plan with a dejected sigh, an audible groan of frustration.

"Come on," Chuck replies as he stands again. His hands slide under her arms, help lift her into the standing position before moving to adjust the only outfit she managed to squeeze herself into during his absence. "I have a present for you."

"A present?"

Her eyes twinkle in excitement, twinkle in anticipation. She moves slowly out of the bedroom, walks in an odd way thanks to the baby dropped low against her pelvis. The doctor told her that the baby dropping is a good sign, a sign she would go into labor soon. Yet soon had stretched into another week; a week spent waddling rather than walking.

Fifth floor to the second floor, the couple moves as a sort of train. Chuck in front, walking downstairs backwards ready to catch her if she falls, with Blair holding tightly onto his shoulder and the baby in utero squished between them.

"We should have bought a house with an elevator," Blair murmurs offhandedly.

Chuck bits his tongue and swallows his reply. He offered weeks ago to take her to the Empire or the Palace, to buy her a place with an elevator so she wouldn't have to walk up and down so many flights of stairs. Eleanor and Cyrus had offered up their penthouse even but Blair refused. She is adamant that she will stay in her house with her husband and her dog and her maid while she waits for Chuck's baby.

(If anything, Blair had become even more possessive as her pregnancy progresses. Everything is hers and hers alone, including the baby up until his due date came and went. Then ownership had transferred to Chuck because he has a history of being late, of being too afraid to face the world and he has clearly passed that trait along to their son.)

Reaching the second floor in one go is a bit of a triumph for them, and they take a moment at the bottom of the stairs for Blair to catch her breath. She lets go of Chuck's shoulders in a signal that she is ready to proceed, releases him to find two unknown women buzzing about her living room.

"Chuck," she begins to question in a low voice, in a reminder that she is not in the mood for company. He ignores her with a soft chuckle and guides her to the nearest armchair in the living room.

"I called your manicurist. She's unavailable today, but she sent her best employees," Chuck informs her as he assists her in sinking down to sit in the chair. "They're going to take care of your beautiful, perfect feet."

He brushes a kiss across her cheek before stepping away. He sits down in chair next to her and works on loosening the laces of his shoes and peeling off his checkered socks in preparation of his own pedicure. Chuck watches her eyes flutter close contently when one of the manicurists slides her feet into the tub of warm water.

"Better?" He asks as the other manicurist moves to do the same with his feet. She offers him a grateful smile and a blissful sigh; holds her hand out for him to hold without ever opening her eyes. He entwines their fingers, squeezes them in a silent prayer that this baby comes sooner rather than later.

* * *

His eyes peer over the counter, his little fingers gripping in excited anticipation as he stands on his tippy, tippy toes. She reaches out and pushes his hands just a little further down the granite, just a little further away from the stove and the open flame. He moves back to his original spot just as soon as her back is turned to him.

"Be careful, Mister Henry," Dorota says with her eyes trained on the stove. The pot of water set to boil would not normally capture so much of her attention, but Henry's excitement is contagious. The little boy slides back down the counter away from the stove where Dorota had sent him to wait and strains to stand just a little bit taller.

"Henry!"

Henry drops back to his feet as a smile spreads across his face. He takes off in a run out of the kitchen through the elegant dining room and right into his father's arms. He wraps his arms around Chuck's neck and gives him a tight squeeze that mashes Chuck's face to his tiny chest as his father carries him to the couch.

"One, two, three."

At the end of the countdown, at the end of their unison chatting, Henry lets go and falls a short distance onto the couch. He bounces once – twice – and giggles with glee, clamoring for Chuck to do that again. His father smiles, obliges him one more time, and then drops to his knee in front of his son before making quick work of removing Henry's socks and shoes.

"Daddy, what's that?"

Fingers point to the metal case open on the floor, to the meticulously arranged bottles of colors ranging from red to purple and back again. Chuck glances over his shoulders, follows the angle of his son's pointer finger.

"That's nail polish," Chuck replies, stuffing Henry's argyle socks into his shoes. "Remember? That's what Mommy uses to make her toes red."

Henry nods in understanding, contemplates for just a moment as his eyes scan over the range of colors. Chuck moves Henry's shoes out of the way and begins rolling the little boy's pants to just below his knees.

"Can I have purple toes?"

"If you want," Chuck replies without hesitation.

"Are you going to have purple toes?"

"No," his father replies with just the trace of laughter in his voice. He pauses, reaches out, and snags the bottle in the case that contains a colorless liquid. "I'm going to use this one."

"But that's not a color," Henry protests. "That's boring. You should use purple like me."

"Oh, I agree," a feminine voice adds as she glides down the stairs and into the living room. Henry beams at her agreement and greets his mother excitedly. Blair drops a kiss to his head before sitting down on the couch next to him, before sliding her arm about him and cuddling him to her side. "Purple is definitely Daddy's color."

She offers her husband a smirk, offers him a teasing smile that has him shaking his head as he moves to stand and head upstairs to change. Dorota enters the room with the large pot of water and three women trailing behind her, snaps at the women to hurry up as she pours water into the three tubs set up side by side in front of the other couch in the room.

Henry smiles and laughs, twists and squirms as Blair teases him and tickles his side. He answers her questions about his day yet remains fixated on the comings and goings of the three women in the room with them.

His excitement builds only to be dashed when Chuck comes down the stairs wearing one of his many robes. The little boy looks from his daddy to his mommy to his own attire and answers his mother's question of what is wrong by sliding off the couch with plans to head upstairs and change into his own robe. Chuck catches him, stops him halfway across the room by scooping him up in his arms.

"You don't need to change," Chuck tells him as he pulls on the little boy's shirt. "You look very sharp."

"My handsome Henry," Blair says as she strokes his hair and soothes away his worry.

His father carries him over to the other couch and places him in the middle so he can sit between Chuck and Blair. His parents take their respective seats, watch curiously as Henry moves to stand and stick his feet in the waiting water. Henry retracts his toes immediately, falls back against the cushions with a yelp over the water being too hot. In response, Blair gathers his feet, brings them to her lips in order to blow cold air over his toes to help cool them down. She pauses, crinkles her nose.

"Stinky piggies," she teases with a yank on his littlest toe. Henry giggles as her joke, smiles as she holds them out for her husband. "I told you we should have started him on pedicures earlier, Chuck. No Waldorf-Bass should have such poor hygiene."


End file.
